A Different Game
by Walabear
Summary: Post HLV, spoilers for sure. Set about six months after the final scene, Sherlock has no further information than he did when his wheels touched the ground, and is running out of leads to follow. This is a Sherlolly story.
1. Chapter 1

Six months of nothing. Well, 6 months, 1 week, and 36 hours of nothing. Approximately. Sherlock had been so pointedly _present_ at Scotland Yard that Lestrade took holiday to escape him.

It had been fruitless. There was not a single case that was out of the ordinary. Nothing unsolved, nothing suspicious. Sherlock even broke into Lestrade's laptop one quiet Sunday morning and spent the day opening and reclosing any case he wasn't already directly involved with in the past year. In retrospect, had he bothered to disguise his presence in Greg's home at all, the inspector might have stayed in town. _Something something, boundaries, something something, breaking and entering_. Irrelevant.

The really important take away from that day had been that nothing had the right signature, no crime had the right implications to lead him to believe that Moriarty or anyone affiliated may have been involved. It was infuriating.

"Did you miss me?" Sherlock whispered to himself as he finished his reconciliation of the serial numbers of 500,000 pounds obtained in a laundering scheme. Lestrade would be proud of his team, the record keeping on this case was laudable, and Sherlock's time was _wasted_.

In a brief moment of frustration, he violently cleared the kitchen table of 15 police files, the bank notes, and three uneaten meals that Mrs. Hudson had not been thanked for. The racket this made was enough to wake the dead, and as that phrase fluttered through his mind, he hoped that was not his sincere intention.

"Is this a bad time?"

Sherlock looked up to the hall and smiled half-heartedly. "Never for you, John. Come in."

Sherlock stomped across the flat and slammed his entire body down onto the sofa, in an excellent impersonation of a toddler. He did look over to John as his friend stepped over the pile of money left in the kitchen to settle into his comfortable lounge chair. "How are the girls?"

"Oh, nobody's sleeping much, but Abby is so sweet it's worth it. Yesterday, you aren't going to believe the bubble she made with her spit just after being burped it was really ado-"

Sherlock may have strained an extraocular muscle with the force of his eye-roll. "Please stop. I only need to be alerted to problems."

John relaxed his excited posture and sighed, "Of course. I'll let you know when my infant gets in over her head with the Russian mob."

Sherlock only closed his eyes and steepled his hands below his chin. "I have found nothing to lead me to believe that Moriarty is alive or that any of his admittedly vast network is in any kind of power to be a significant threat."

"What do you think is going on, then? Is he waiting for something?"

Silence stretched. There was no need for him to say the words out loud, it was clear by the entire topic that he didn't know.

"Sherlock, you need to just wait. You've done it before. Our criminals come for us, there shouldn't be this much chasing involved. Until an actual crime is committed, that is. Keep an eye out, he'll make his move, just like the pink phone, just like after his trial."

"No one seems to understand the potential dangers of our current situation! Mycroft is doing what he can, but surprisingly enough, he doesn't actually have an entire platoon at his disposal. The security detail on my people is growing thinner every week."

The doctor cocked his head to the side and frowned. "Your people?" This question was met with a soft grunt. "You mean Mary, Abby, and myself."

A sigh, this time. "Of course I mean you."

"And Mrs. Hudson."

"Yes."

"And Lestrade."

"Ugh, just one man on him, he is _on_ the police force."

"And Molly Hooper."

To this he only got silence, and was not surprised. "Sherlock, what about Molly?"

"What about Molly?" This sentence came out of Sherlock's mouth so forcefully it seemed as violent an action as the one the doctor had walked in on this afternoon.

"Are you having Mycroft watch her?" John said these words slowly, he knew he had to tread lightly over this if he wanted to continue the conversation the way he wanted to.

Another non-committal sound came from somewhere at the very bottom of Sherlock's throat. Knowing that that was the extent that this line of questioning would get him, he decided to take a bathroom break.

"Whoever set that broadcast is successfully stressing you. When he makes his move, you will be tired and half off your rocker, and he didn't even have to try."

Sherlock turned to watch his friend saunter off down the hall. _He may, in fact, have a point._ Sherlock made the decision that moment to get back into a healthy routine. His mind was not meant for paperwork, it was made for science.

This particular scientist was nothing more than a blur as he lost his dressing gown and threw on his jacket and coat. He banged on the bathroom door as he left his bedroom, "I'm going to Bart's. Give my love to Mary and the baby, and I will tell her if you stay here and nap instead of going home straight away!"

The front door slammed as John left the bathroom. He smiled to himself and grabbed his lumbar pillow from his old chair. "I had just the hardest time getting a cab, it was the strangest thing," he rehearsed as he successfully stole 30 minutes for himself and settled down on the sofa.


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: Hello all! I have updated the story summary to express that this is a very Sherlolly story. I am, however, trying to keep it in the realm of possibility. If I can't suspend my own disbelief, I could hardly expect it of you, dear reader. Also, I have no beta or Britpick, so please don't hesitate to offer constructive (read: gentle) criticism. **

Molly was looking forward to her day off. _45 minutes to go._

She wasn't particularly stressed by her current workload, but the last few months had been emotionally draining. This was only exacerbated by the effort she put forth to look chipper while she was at work. It just wouldn't do, looking as if she was about to have a nervous breakdown at the drop of a hat. Not that she was, of course, but most of the hospital seemed to know her business, and those nosy people were just looking for any small sign of weakness to discuss at length on break over coffee.

Molly would not let them have that satisfaction, and had taken to finding solace in the quiet moments she had alone. She was now blissfully alone in her office space next to the lab, finishing her day's paperwork. She sighed as she dropped three files on her way to the file cabinet. A quick glance to her monitor, _42 minutes_, and she bent to pick them up.

She saw the shadow before she heard the door open, and instinctively dove under the empty desk on her left, leaving the files open and shuffled on the floor. She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing as she heard the creak of the office door and felt another presence in the room.

"Lose something?" The voice was familiar, and Molly immediately flushed with embarrassment. Sherlock hadn't bent to look at her, so she quickly slipped her badge off of her lab coat and made to get up.

Her actions often lacked grace, and this motion did not disappoint. She caught her shoulder on the underside of the desk as she stood, and she landed hard on one knee.

"I dropped my badge when I went to pick up those files," she said as she gratefully accepted Sherlock's arm to right herself. "Instead of catching it, I slapped it underneath the desk." There was no point to looking at her monitor again, Sherlock was here for something, and she would definitely be helping him with whatever it may be, regardless of her hours.

As Molly released Sherlock's arm, she looked at his face for the first time. She could see the scrutiny there, and braced herself for the deduction. His eyes narrowed, looking at her badge, the files, and settling on her eyes.

"Molly, if you had swept your files with you, I might not have seen you under the desk," he paused and looked at the hand that had previously grasped his arm. "For future reference."

The pathologist looked back into Sherlock's eyes and recognized the same change she's been seeing for almost a year, here and there. He works at being kinder now. However, hiding things from him was as futile an endeavor as it ever was.

"I have been on edge, Sherlock, since the broadcast. I hope you understand why," Molly didn't want to talk about the assistance she gave when he faked his death. She appreciated his gratitude, but never wanted him to feel guilty about her involvement. Even though she was now a possible target, she didn't regret her actions for a minute.

Molly knelt to pick up her files. They were now hopelessly shuffled, and she sighed as she realized the effort it was going to take to right them. A quick glance at her watch, _39 minutes_. She stood, arms full of loose papers, "Can I help you with anything? I don't remember getting anything suspicious in today."

"I was hoping to help with whatever projects you currently have open, but I see you're working on leaving."

_There wasn't a case to solve at the moment, which makes things a bit different. _As Molly realized that Sherlock's presence was going to give her a much needed respite from her colleagues, she was genuinely excited at the prospect of making headway in some of her ongoing projects.

"I'm not, actually," she said, brightly. "I'm disappointed that I have to take the time to fix these files, but I was hoping to get started on my next experiment. You're welcome to join me, I'm going to be analyzing internal tissue damage."

At his smile, Molly abandoned the files in a tidy, but still disorganized stack on top of her workstation, grabbed two pairs of goggles and followed her tall friend into the adjoining lab.


End file.
